Arthur Robbins, Assistant Commissioner, leant forward and tapped his driver on the shoulder. "Change of venue, SIS Building."

The female driver nodded as she drove the black three-litre Range Rover out of the New Scotland Yard car park.

"I thought we were attending a Cabinet Office Briefing," said Halliwell.

Arthur hesitated. "Need to know."

The driver stopped the car at the main entrance of SIS. The two men exited and entered via the revolving door before passing through the metal detector.

Inside, armed-guards watched. At the reception, a petite, stone-faced woman checked their name, number and rank against the official register. A female armed officer escorted them to a lift, let them enter and pressed an unmarked button. The doors closed and the unit descended.

When the doors opened, two armed men escorted them into the operations room. Twenty people, a few in uniform, encircled a highly polished and long oval table. On one wall, a giant screen remained blank.

Halliwell recognised the government ministers and the heads of the armed forces. Others he was sure he had seen before but could not remember where. He and Arthur seated themselves.

On time, the Prime Minister entered, followed by her secretary. She stood and rested both her hands on the table. "Good morning. Thank you for attending this meeting. I know you are busy." She seated herself.

The Prime Minister's secretary nodded, and the lights dimmed. The screen on the wall flickered into life. In silence, everyone watched as an ICBM launched from its silo in India. When the missile dived into the sea, the lights brightened. There were nods and murmurs from around the table.

The Prime Minister did not stand but placed both hands, palms down, on the polished tabletop. "Before I open this meeting you all know the rules. No notes and everything said here remains here. For once the media believe they know as much as we do and it must remain that way. This morning, India's Prime Minister informed me that this launch was not authorised. My own ministers tell me this cannot happen. However, I am informed our Assistant Police Commissioner disagrees."

Arthur stood. "Prime Minister, Commander Halliwell is the officer in charge and has the facts."

Halliwell stood and opened the file in front of him. He paused glancing at those seated around the table. "Prime Minister, ladies and gentlemen, I have questioned three students concerning the launch of the alleged rogue Indian missile. They confirm that a fellow student, Jacob Spink, deliberately hacked and launched the missile. Thank God, it fell into the sea and did not damage anything or anyone. I understand he has gained access to other missile sites."

Across the table, a grey-haired man spoke. "Commander, are you telling us that this man bypassed the complex system of launch codes?"

Behind his back, he clenched his fists and stared at the man. "I am."

To his left, a large bull of a man spoke. "Are you sure?"

Halliwell's mouth was dry as he glanced at his notes. He lifted his head. "I am."

"Commander."

"Yes, Prime Minister."

"Tell me the worst case scenario and your recommendations?"

Halliwell grimaced. "As I understand, the worst case scenario is our missile systems may have been infected with a worm, or virus. If not detained and his operating programme destroyed he could launch another missile. As I'm not a internet or missile expert, I'll leave the advice of what to do, to those who know. For the moment I would suggest we contain and control this situation and refrain from informing the media."

The Prime Minister gave the nod. "Admiral."

A tall man in his late fifties stood. "Prime Minister. Before this meeting, I discussed the Commander's scenario with my people. They are experts in missile technology. I understand there's no possibility of our missile safety systems and launch protocols being compromised."

Halliwell gave a dry smile, said nothing and leaned back in his chair.

The discussion shifted from negative to positive. A few of those present stated an unauthorised person or persons could not gain access to British missiles.

After two hours of discussion, the Prime Minister interceded. "Commander Halliwell, I am grateful for your frankness, it's something that's in short supply these days. I leave this enquiry within your department. The Defence Minister will order an in-depth investigation into our own missile systems. Until there is proof of interference, nothing will change. However, I do agree with the Commander. There will be a time to inform the people, but this is not it."

Halliwell flushed with exasperation.

Arthur nudged him. "Ready?"

With others, they waited in the passage until the Prime Minister departed. Even then, the lift only took four persons.

Thirty minutes later, they were on their way back to Scotland Yard.

"You know when the shit hits the fan, we'll be up to our arses in hungry crocodiles. Find this Jacob Spink," said Arthur.

"We've done everything we can, Sir. If he's found a bolt hole to hide, we stand no chance."

"I want good news, not a verbal report on how you are wasting time. Someone must know something."

"He was a loner, no real friends and no significant other."

The car stopped in the basement car park. "Be a good man. Keep me apprised at all times."

"Yes, Sir." Three bags fucking full.

***

His long, threadbare coat dragged along the pavement as John Newton ran from Blackfriars Bridge. He rushed past closed shop doorways where others of his kind slept in cardboard boxes. The empty streets made him exposed as he raced to his current hidey-hole.

During the day, others avoided him. Somehow, he had ceased to be human. When he could get something alcoholic to drink, he drank until oblivion eased his pain.

Around midday, he stirred, reached for his bottle of cheap wine and remembered the suitcase. Today he was lucky it still lay beside his mattress. Black bin-liners stuffed with his belongings surrounded him.

With the kitchen knife caked in dried blood, he forced the locks and unzipped the top section. Trousers, underwear, open-necked shirts, unfashionable suit and jumpers filled the space.

He opened the bottom half and grinned. His dirty hands grabbed the digital camera and a watch. These he could sell. He lifted a white dressing gown and found a large padded envelope. He weighed it in his right hand. In seconds, the blade of his knife tore into the paper, and the contents fell into his lap. His eyes bulged, and with a loud roar, he screamed. "Holy shit. I can get high forever."

A shadow drifted across the entrance to his lair. "Are you having a fit or something?" asked a gruff voice.

He lifted and tossed half a brick at the shadow. "Fuck off."

His hands shook as he lifted one of the plastic-coated packets. These can't be real. He pulled three of the ten-pound notes from the package. They had the smell of new money, and they were plastic. Tonight I stay in a hotel. He glanced at the clothes. They might even be my size. From the case, he removed trousers, a shirt and a jumper and checked the sizes. They were larger than he usually wore but not a problem. While scratching his nose, he saw his grime-covered hands. "Shit, I need a wash. Mungo's here I come."

***

Forty minutes later John Newton arrived at St Mungo's homeless shelter. He clutched the case in his right hand as he strolled into the building. The stench of bleach invaded his nose.

The middle-aged man seated behind a desk lifted his head and smiled. "Sorry mate, we're full for tonight, try the Salvation Army, you might get lucky."

"I don't want a bed but this guy offered me a job, and I need a shower before I meet him. Night-watchman, warm office and it pays ok. Please, Mister. Tell you what; he gave me a few quid to buy some decent clothes. I'll give you a twenty for the use of a bath and a razor."

The man held out his right hand. "Show me the money."

John pulled a roll of notes from his pocket, peeled off two and handed them over.

"You know where the bathrooms are. Razors are in the cupboard. The cleaner has just finished. Don't make a mess."

"Thanks, you've saved my life." He lifted the case and strolled to the bathroom.

It was as he remembered, functional, bare of any frills or unnecessary comforts, and it was clean. An old mirror glued to the far wall sparkled in the light from the window. White towels lay in a neatly folded pile on a wooden bench in the corner.

His thoughts drifted. I could murder a drink.

He half filled the bath, dumped his clothes on the floor and lowered his scrawny frame into the clear water. His mind swirled, as if in another world.

***

Ted Harper stared at the ten-pound notes. Those who begged on the streets always arrived with a pocketful of copper coins mixed with a few ten pence pieces, never a roll of new notes. Twenty pounds would buy booze, cigarettes or drugs, never a bath. He lifted the telephone and contacted the police.

Two plain-clothes police officers arrived minutes later.

"That was fast," said Ted.

"We stopped along the road to buy and eat our sandwiches." The older of the two held out his warrant card. "Detective Sergeant Wilson and Detective Constable Silver. Where's this man with a bundle of tenners?"

"Having a bath."

"We'll wait. Any chance of a cup of coffee?" asked Wilson.

"I'll ring the kitchen," said Ted.

Three steaming mugs of coffee arrived as the men chatted.

Twenty minutes later John waltzed through the passage door. "I left my old clothes on the floor. You can do what you like with them."

"Smart," said Wilson. "Come into some money?"

"Backed the winner on the three thirty at Kempton Park."

"National Hunt," said Silver. "My horse is still running."

"Can't win them all."

"Nor can you," said Silver. "The last race at Kempton was ten days ago on the flat."

John shrugged. "Made a mistake. That's not a crime."

"He told me he received an advance from a potential employer," said Ted.

"You heard me wrong."

"Just to let you know and before you answer, I'm Detective Sergeant Wilson" he held up his warrant card. "What's your name and where did you get the money?"

"John Newton. I found it."

"Where?"

"Beside me, when I woke up."

Wilson always considered himself a great judge of character when he interviewed suspects. His reason did not fail him with this man. "You want me to believe someone placed a large sum of money for you to find in your shit hole. Let me tell you I have never believed in Father Christmas or fairies. You can do this the easy or hard way. Silver, collect his old clothes while I escort our friend to the car. Ted, you are my witness."

He turned to John. "Sir. You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something, which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence."

John stared at him in silence.

Wilson picked up the case and gripped John's arm with his free hand. "You're in the back."

Silver returned and placed John's old clothes into an evidence bag. This he dropped with the suitcase into the boot. He slammed it shut and jumped into the passenger seat.

John closed his eyes. Wilson guided the unmarked Astra through the busy streets of London. Twenty minutes later the car entered the Metropolitan Police underground car park.

Wilson and Silver escorted their suspect into the building towards the custody sergeant. With their man logged, they placed him in an interview room with no windows.

Wilson sat on the edge of the table and smiled. "Anything you want to say before we have your clothes tested."

"Why do you want to test my clothes?"

"You'd be amazed what we discover from people's clothes. I bet you were wearing them when you stole the money."

John shrugged. "Suit yourself."

Silver, carrying the evidence bag, vanished for a few minutes before rejoining them.

Wilson pointed to a chair. "You can sit or stand, I don't care."

John pulled a chair out from the table and seated himself. "I want a lawyer sat next to me before I answer your questions."

Wilson spread his hands. "Silver, when we finish chatting, get this man a brief."

John puffed out his cheeks. "Any chance of a cigarette?"

Wilson pointed at a no smoking sign. "Tell me, where did the money come from?"

"How the hell do I know? Last night I was out of it on Meths and coke. The suitcase was next to me this morning. I forced it open and found the money."

"Shall we peek inside and see if we can find its owner."

"Not my decision, is it?"

Wilson grinned and pressed a button, which switched on the video machine. "Did you force both these locks?"

John folded his arms. "No, I used the power of my mind."

Wilson nodded to the uniformed police officer. "Please list each item as I remove it from the case."

"Hey, Clouseau, I found the case, and you can't prove I didn't."

"Shut it. You don't ask questions. You do as you're told." A knock interrupted them. Silver opened the door. "Someone wants to talk to you, Boss."

"It had better be important."

Wilson closed the door behind him.

"We will wait until my colleague returns. How did you end up homeless?"

At that moment, the door opened. Silver stood back while another man and Wilson entered. "My name is Chief Inspector Raymond Paris. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something, which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence."

"I've already cautioned him. What's the score, Sir?"

"It's your lucky day, Wilson. This man has a rather bloody knife. The blood type is the same as a man found on Blackfriars Bridge last night. Charge him with the murder of Jacob Spink."

"That name sounds familiar," said Silver.

"Why?" asked Wilson.

Silver pondered for a moment or two. "The terrorist squad want him stopped if he tries to leave the country."

"Well he's in the mortuary freezer," said Paris. "I thought it was a straight forward mugging. Those upstairs will be feasting on my balls when I tell them he's dead. Lock this one in a cell and don't let him see or talk to anyone and I mean anyone. I'm going upstairs."